Yes, I was nervous, but mostly I was excited. It was my first day as Mistress Darkness, a professional dominatrix. As a black graduate student in her 20s who had previously held down employment as a gym teacher and library assistant, I surprised myself when I answered the ad on Craigslist. I needed a flexible, part-time job to supplement my graduate assistantship stipend and the $65-$85/hr compensation sounded like easy money. I had always been intrigued by the sex industry, but the thought of being a sex worker clashed with my feminist ideals. I decided to make an exception for this dominatrix listing, which seemed different to me with its strict “no sex or nudity” policy.
I stood in my new office — a dungeon surrounded by cages, whips and harnesses. Most of the equipment, I could still only imagine a purpose for. After all, I only had two days of dome boot camp. Despite the fact that I looked ready to play the part, I wasn’t sure I felt ready. But I made up for my lack of confidence with the leather catsuit and steel-spiked, knee high boots. In my pro-domme attire I felt fierce and I was loving it. Getting into character as Mistress Darkness, I quickly scanned my first client’s notes.
White, 44-year-old attorney. Married father of two. Turn-ons: being treated like a dog, golden showers and limited corporeal punishment. Safe word: Pink.
The door opened and in walked my first submissive. Oddly, his presence was dominant and he held eye contact with me. A challenge. He was begging to be broken.
“Get down on your knees,” I commanded him in my best rehearsed dom voice I struck the floor with my whip for emphasis.
I marveled at my level-headed control of the situation. Using my newly honed skills I placed the collar around his neck gauging its tightness just as I’d practice in dom basic training.
“GET ON ALL FOURS!” I screamed while pushing him hard to the floor with my the spike heel of my boot.
The force caught him of guard, but he was able to brace himself inches before his face hit the floor.
“I’ll call you Fi Fi,” I taunted. My eyes wandered around the room and landed on a large dog crate. I was inspired.
“Walk!” I demanded.
I stood behind and held the leash taut, forcing him to strain against his own collar as he crawled forward. I cruelly tugged, yanked, kicked and whipped my sub, all while hurling insults like “weak,” “dirty,” “idiot,” “bitch” and worse with ferocity. Grabbing a fistful of his hair I dragged my man-slave into the metal prison.
“Look at me!” I spat out.
Fi Fi looked up, we locked eyes and then it happened.
He broke me.
It was like I was viewing that ASPCA animal abuse commercial with Sarah McLachlan’s “Angel” playing in the background. I took in his tear streaked face, red eyes, wrinkled clothing and tousled hair. Here was a grown man stuffed uncomfortably in a cage looking just plain pitiful. I couldn’t continue on. Tears welled in my eyes. I spun around and walked away trying to regain my composure. I heard gasping coming from behind me and I looked around in a panic. My client was laughing at me. I burst into tears.
I had broken the number one rule of being a dominatrix — don’t break character. Game Over.
I stood there in my rented stilettos and catsuit, mascara running and whip still in hand, I felt more pathetic than my client, who was still wearing his collar.
“We can sit out the remaining 40 minutes because you look like you could really use the money,” Fi Fi offered, as if I were some cheap hooker.
I declined and asked him to leave without paying.
I was humiliated at my fall from grace — Mistress Darkness to Weeping Wendy within minutes. My dominatrix career ended that day. I realized that I was too soft for the job. But my experience didn’t totally turn me off the adult industry. I’ll just be on the lookout for phone-sex operator ads instead.
Original by Niki Drayton
